Vita Est Tempestas
by TinyLoco
Summary: Ten years in Azkaban. The sentence imposed by the Wizenagamot for murder and treason. Murder, or was it justice? Treason, or was it patriotism? Fifteen years of age and Harry finds himself in the minimum security levels of the island prison, where the dementor's presence is little, where gangs engage in brutal combat, and where the Warden's cruelty is keenly felt.


**Vita Est Tempestas**

_ "Life is a storm, my young friend. You will bask in the sunlight one moment, be shattered on the rocks the next. What makes you a man is what you do when that storm comes. You must look into that storm and shout as you did in Rome. Do your worst, for I will do mine! Then the fates will know you as we know you"_

― _Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo_

**Chapter One: The Rock Part One**

The last rays of sunlight sank slowly beneath the horizon, casting a scarlet glare upon the underside of the storm front. Where Harry stood at the docks the sky was clear, but already the presence of the tempest could be felt, like a promise of the fury to come. The heavy, humid air, telling of the deluge that would soon arrive. The powerful waves breaking upon the rocky shore and the forceful winds whipping spray into his face, merely a side effect of the elemental battle being waged leagues from the beachhead. The pervasive static charge, that raised the small hairs on his arms and neck, and brought forth memories of spellfire and screaming, a warning of the blinding flashes that arced between the two roiling black masses, lighting the horizon in blue and white as the sun slipped away. In his short fifteen years Harry had seen workings of magic that drew upon incomprehensible levels of power, but the feats of man always remained paltry in comparison to the effortlessly violent majesty of nature.

Harry pulled his eyes from the intoxicating sight of nature's fury, focusing upon his unwilling destination. The black pillar was barely visible in the twilight, and at five kilometers away it looked insignificant, but he did not need to be close to know the oppressive danger it represented. Azkaban Prison, a keep of grey stone resting atop a fist of jagged rock hardly larger than itself. Even at shore he could feel the aura of its unearthly guards, the biting cold that pierced deeper than any winds, the hints of his mother's screams at the edge of his hearing. He tried to focus and run through the exercises his uncle had taught him in third year to stave off the dementors' leeching presence, but the effort was futile. The past weeks had been draining, and had left him weak in mind, body, and spirit. The deaths of his godfather and uncle, the numerous fights for his life, living on the run for two weeks narrowly avoiding capture by aurors and death eaters alike. His capture and interrogation, and the betrayals of people he had called allies and friends, all weighed heavily upon his soul, while his body begged for a rest it would not soon receive.

A sharp prodding at the base of his spine drew Harry from his melancholy reverie. It was the wand of one of his escorts, a plain faced, sandy haired hit-wizard whose name he couldn't be bothered to remember. The man nodded stiffly towards something over Harry's shoulder, and Harry turned his head back forwards to find that the ferry had arrived. Auror Captain Shacklebolt had already boarded the long, skeletal dinghy, and the second hit-wizard, a short, stout, hard faced man with a black buzz cut waited on the dock nearby. Harry was reluctant to move, the bruised soreness of his body and the chafing of his rune engraved magic dampening manacles had accompanied his return to awareness. His thin prison uniform was rapidly transitioning from damp to soaked, the chill increased by the winds, and he felt no urge to move any closer to the storm causing it, nor the unnatural cold exuded by the dementors. He was mildly happy that he no longer needed glasses, attempting to keep them clear in this weather would have been an unmitigated chore. The sight ritual he'd undergone the summer after third year had been painful, and left him bed ridden for two weeks in his room at Grimmauld Place, but he came out of with superhuman vision. The feeling of being able to see properly without assistance had been incredibly freeing, and was yet another thing he had to thank his uncle's memory for. The wand jabbed his spine again, accompanied by a hoarsely growled "get a move on" and a spark of raw magic that sent an unpleasant spasm up his back. Harry sighed heavily and forced his tired feet to move, his shuffling gait impeded by the ankle irons that connected to his manacles by way of a heavy chain with little slack. Harry and his escorts joined the auror and the ferryman in the seemingly rickety vessel, seated beside the back jabber and across from Shacklebolt and buzz cut. The two hit-wizards held their wands at the ready, watching him intently, but the auror captain stared impassively into space.

As the vessel embarked upon the rolling waves Harry studied the man who would officially turn him over to the tender care of Azkaban's warden. Kingsley Shacklebolt, he knew of the man, had even been in the same room as him more than once, but had never formally met him. The son of South African immigrants, old enough and experienced enough to be working a desk job, but still dedicated to field work. A veteran of the first civil war, and a high ranking member of Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix. Dumbledore, a name that once inspired awe and loyalty, then fear and mistrust, and now only hatred. The old bastard had judged him to be too far gone, a failed project fallen to dark influences, and thus sentenced Harry to the living nightmare he slowly approached.

He turned his attention from Shacklebolt to the ferryman. He was tall and thin, his face pale and drawn beneath his heavy black cloak. Harry almost laughed at the perfection of the imagery. The man could very easily be Charon, ferryman of the dead, the dark waters of the bay the River Styx, and the prison island Hell itself. The suffocating cold of the dementors grew stronger, and Harry's thoughts grew darker, his mind replaying the turn of events that had brought him to this nigh mythological setting.

It had begun months back, in the summer after fourth year, with a simple request. Harry had asked to join his uncle on some of his assignments and personal missions. Uncle Joe had been an operative of the Department of Mysteries' Special Operations division. The force had been formed during Voldemort's first rise to power, composed of promising and morally deficient hit-wizards, highly capable criminals seeking pardon, and hired wands from abroad. His uncle had been an international mercenary and hitman for some years before being recruited. Uncle Joe had been reluctant at first. He could see his youthful face, twisted in an expression of consternation, his short dark auburn hair swept back and damp with sweat from their training session, his piercing green eyes the same shade as Harry's own.

"You are far too young Haraldr, and your training is far from complete." The words were spoken in a near emotionless deadpan, with the barest hint of a German accent.

Harry groaned internally at the use of his full name, but his uncle allowed no use of nicknames. The man had a dozen identities he could slip into like a second skin, but when alone with family he became almost unbearably formal.

"I know uncle, but with Riddle back I need every advantage I can get, my training didn't do me a bit of good in that graveyard, I need experience, real experience." Harry spoke fervently, hoping his passion would sway his uncle.

His look darkened for a moment, likely at the mention of the graveyard. Harry new his uncle was deeply ashamed of his failure to protect his nephew and prevent Voldemort's return. His face cleared and he shifted his eyes from the ground to Harry's own.

"It is true, you need experience, and you will have it in time, but you are still too young." He spoke with a stern sense of finality, but Harry wasn't finished. His anger at the situation, at Voldemort, and to a certain extent, his uncle, flared, and Harry spoke up before he could think about his words.

"That's hippogriff shit and you know it. You were the same age as I am now when you went on your first mission. I need this, and I'm not going to let it go because you feel guilty for failing to protect me."

His uncle tensed in fury, and Harry's anger fled, his face paling, fearing he had gone too far. Uncle Joe brooked no disrespect, and it wouldn't be the first time he'd punished Harry for speaking in such a way. His uncle remained silent, and as Harry's fear mounted, he prepared for a bludgeoning curse or even a short bout of the cruciatus. But the moment passed, his uncle's expression shifting from a rictus of anger to conflicted contemplation.

"Very well. But I must warn you nephew, these missions will be dangerous, some more dangerous than anything you have done before." Harry scoffed in his mind, what could be more dangerous than fighting a Basilisk? "There are actions you will be forced to take, actions whose consequences will stay with you until the day you die." Harry felt unease pooling in his stomach with those words, but he squashed it down ruthlessly. _No matter what comes, I have to do this. I can't rely on luck to defeat Voldemort. He has to die so I can live; no price is too large to pay. _Oh how he would come to despise that childish thought in the months to come. His uncle strode forward, his face easing into a small smile, and clasped him by the shoulders.

"You remind me of my dear sister more with every passing day. That temper will get you into trouble. I know I must seem a harsh taskmaster, but I must forge you into a warrior for you to survive this world, and sometimes the flaws need be hammered out." Harry was calmed by the rare kindness, but could still interpret the rebuke and warning for what it was. His slip had been allowed this time, but the easy forgiveness would not be repeated in the future.

Harry nodded solemnly, communicating his acknowledgement of the warning and his uncle's smile widened in response. He opened his mouth to speak again, likely to communicate some rare expression of praise, when they were interrupted by Sirius barging into the training room. A mischievous smile lit his face, his eyes dancing in anticipation of the night's coming events.

"You fuckers done yet? We've got places to be, parties to crash, and aristocrats to blackmail." Harry laughed and his uncle's smile became a joyous grin.

"We're done Padfoot, let's go bother some purebloods." And so the odd little family had gone out into the night, intent on securing some important information and having a bit of fun in the process.

Less than three months later school was starting again, and the nervous excitement of that night's excursion had become a petty thing. Returning to Hogwarts Harry felt more alone than ever before, a soldier among children. He had borne witness to feats of magic that would make the average schoolboy piss his pants, had participated in acts of brutality that would make a grown man lose his lunch. He had killed in cold blood, more than once, had been party to interrogations- torture really, had broken more laws and common standards of morality than could be counted on his fingers. He had new scars, the thin line of a cutting curse that had slashed deep into his bicep, the twin buttons of scar tissue that marked where a piercing curse had passed through the meat of his thigh, a patch of waxy, distorted skin on the side of his ribs from a stray _incendio_, a smattering of small cuts on his scalp from the shrapnel of a narrowly dodged _bombarda_. Driven by the pain and fear of these first engagements he had taken to his physical conditioning and dueling practice with a new fervor once reserved only for quidditch and the study of obscure, powerful magics. With the help of some specialty potions he had finally shifted from a toned scrawniness to healthy bulk.

Despite his new focus and physicality, he felt removed from his peers. He was hated and scorned for his claims of Voldemort's return, seen by most as at best an attention seeking brat and at worst as delusional and dangerous. The majority roused feelings of annoyance, fueled by disgust for their naivety, while a select few he despised, for either being complicit in the events of the graveyard, or for their bootlicking loyalty to the Ministry. Every night and morning was torture, as Voldemort's tumultuous emotions battered against his occlumency shields, disrupting his sleep and causing blinding headaches that lasted well into the afternoon. Like a poisoned cherry atop a shit sundae the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher saw fit to make his life even more hellish. Dolores Umbridge, a ministry lackey thrust unceremoniously into the position by the minister, who sought more control at Hogwarts, she looked for every opportunity to antagonize him. First she banned him from the quidditch team, but Harry was largely unbothered by that, having come to see the sport as a frivolous waste of time. Disappointed in his lack of response she had turned up the heat in her classes, ridiculing and undermining him constantly. Her classes became a grueling exercise in self-control, but the bitch knew just how to push his buttons, and when he inevitably lost control she assigned detentions writing lines with a blood quill. Two months into the school year and he had a new scar, _I shall not tell lies_ showing clearly on the back of his hand. Ron and Hermione insisted that he tell someone, usually mentioning Dumbledore and Sirius, but if Harry were to tell anyone it would have been his uncle, who they knew next to nothing about. But Harry new from his experiences over the summer how busy his uncle was, he didn't need to be bothered with this, Harry could handle it himself, he would handle it himself. Despite their faithful dedication to him that year Harry held a growing contempt for his only friends, Hermione's naïve faith in Dumbledore and her ceaseless pestering that he open up and tell her about his problems angered him, and Ron's support felt hollow after the last year's betrayal. Where once he may have had patience for them, the events of the past year had burned away his tolerant nature. One morning as he sat in the common room exhausted and suffering a blinding headache he blew up. Hermione was lecturing him for skipping classes to train, Ron sitting by interjecting with redundant sounds of agreement and Harry snapped, screaming at them to just shut the fuck up and leave him be before storming out in a rage. He began to avoid and ignore them entirely, skipping classes and detentions alike to focus on his training. He began coming to meals early and late, eating quickly before heading off to the library to study or to the grounds to push his body to its limits.

As the year dragged on and he fell into a steady pattern of training, study, and subtle espionage, he grew complacent. At the start of the school year, fresh from the summer's violence, he came to school wary, almost paranoid. He watched the junior death eaters in Slytherin like a hawk, but with Malfoy the lesser and his cronies content to merely antagonize him, his guard dropped. He should have been watching the upper years, students whose friends and family had been assaulted, robbed, and some even "mysteriously" disappeared during the summer. Students who were privy to meetings in which the possibility of Harry and his family's involvement in these attacks had been discussed. So often alone and secluded as he was, Harry had become an easy target.

The ambush had been well sprung, for a group of teenagers. Harry had been leaving the Forbidden Forest after a particularly intense session working with some highly destructive dark magic, when several jets of light shot out of the darkening forest. His uncle's ruthless conditioning saved him, his_ protego_ was up before he'd even realized what was happening, but he was tired after the training session and yet another almost sleepless night, and his shield was weak. The last spell to impact was a powerful blasting curse that destroyed his shield and sent him flying back. His head struck the ground and he nearly blacked out, but he heard his uncle's voice lecturing him _Get up. Keep moving. A still body is a dead body._ He pushed through the pain, his body feeling like one massive bruise after absorbing a large portion of the explosion's shockwave, rolling to his hands and knees amid mocking laughter and catcalls. _They're toying with me. I'll make them regret that. _He flicked his wand, still held in a white knuckled grip, and silently summoned a dense cloud of mist. As cries of shock and anger rang out he leapt to his feet and darted forward, just in time to avoid a myriad of spells that scorched, froze, and ruptured the ground where he'd been lying. He kept at his mad dash, out of the small clearing and towards the only part of the forest that he hadn't heard voices in. He got about ten strides away when a shouted _ventus_ cleared the mist. Harry dropped behind a small berm and listened closely to his attackers' voices, slowing his breathing and running through the exercises of occlumentic combat meditation.

"He's gone! Where the fuck did he go!?" _Adrian Pucey, _Uncle Joe had heard rumors that the Pucey's were hosting a party as a cover for Death Eater activities. Fiendfyre had turned their home to ash, but a mistake in the ward breaking had alerted them, and they'd all fled to safety.

"He's running scared, we planned for this, there's only one way he could have gone, deeper into the forest." _Evan Rosier_, a staged mugging to gather some polyjuice material from his mother, and some clever fraud, and the Rosier vaults had been emptied _almost_ legally. Within a month they were practically destitute, the family of four moving from a large house in the country to a flat in Knockturn Alley, and most importantly, they were no longer able to provide Riddle any monetary support.

"Let's go! We don't have all night! That little bastard will pay for my father!" _Marcus Flint_, Harry remembered Flint senior well, he'd had information they needed, and had stood up well to two wands simultaneously casting the cruciatus. They'd needed to be finished quickly, his wife and son would be returning soon, so they'd switched to more _medieval _methods. The flaying curse started life as a hunting charm for skinning small game, designed to require the least possible amount of power and finesse. It was easy to master, even for a fourteen year old boy. Within minutes he was crying and begging, there's something much more visceral about watching your skin be removed piece by piece. Within a quarter hour he'd told them all they needed to know, they had the location of a Death Eater safe house where a cache of dark artifacts, and more importantly, a group of foreign Death Eaters, were being kept. Uncle Joe had instructed him to put the man out of his misery, and Harry had done the deed with a simple _lacero _across the throat. They'd waited, watching until he'd drowned in his own blood, and then left the gory mess of a man at his kitchen table, waiting for his family to find him.

A garbled mess of affirmative responses followed Flint's declaration, and Harry was unable to put any names to the voices, though he had determined that close to a dozen junior Death Eaters were hunting him. _I'm flattered_ _that they would think to bring so many, but I doubt they're all here for personal vendettas._ As the group fanned out, trudging quickly through the trees, Harry slowly crawled up the berm, taking aim at the center of the party, a loose cluster of five rapidly approaching his position. He prepared for a piece of particularly draining spell work. It was a modified pressure charm, designed for mining and controlled demolition, combined with a tricky bit of transfiguration, with the desired effect being similar to a muggle grenade. The pressure charm condensed a volume of air into a small point, both variable and dependent on how powerful of an explosion was wanted, it took a lot of power to hold but could be moved and delayed for however long the caster could endure the strain. What made the transfiguration tricky, besides being high level transfiguration in and of itself, was the fact that it needed to be cast while maintaining a hold on the pressure bomb. If done correctly the outermost particles of the bomb would be transformed into a thin steel sphere. Focusing his mind and magic Harry silently cast the pressure charm, condensing nearly all the air between he and his targets into a sphere the size of an orange a meter or so in front of them. They startled at the sound of rushing air but Harry didn't allow himself to be distracted. Within another moment he performed the transfiguration and slid back behind cover, allowing his concentration to slip. A teeth rattling boom shook the forest, followed by the whistling of shrapnel speeding off into the trees at supersonic speeds, and then blood curdling screams of pain.

Harry wasted no time, rising out of cover with his magic pooled and ready. Where seconds ago there had been five teenagers, there was now four mangled corpses, and Adrian Pucey lacking his legs from the knee down. To the right he saw two cloaked figures, running through the darkness towards the scene of the butchery. Harry fired off a wide arcing cutting charm, created for felling trees. It caught the closest figure in the chest, splitting him messily in two; the second was saved by a quick dodge behind a particularly thick oak. A flicker of movement to his left caught Harry's eye and he pivoted to trade spells with a dark silhouette emerging from behind a nearby tree. His perception of time altered by the combat meditation, Harry watched as his overpowered bludgeoning curse punched a fist sized hole in his attacker's chest, while simultaneously swatting the incoming spell down and to his right with a practiced use of the _averto_ shield. His altered perception also allowed him to realize his mistake as it happened.

The _bombarda _struck the ground less than a meter to his right. His hasty _protego _shattered and the shockwave struck him like a giant's fist, lifting him bodily from the ground and sending him careening several meters to the left. He struck the ground like a sack of potatoes, and for a moment his consciousness fled. He opened his eyes to find the night much darker than before, and amidst his gasping attempts to regain his breath the only sound he could discern was a sharp whine. As his breathing steadied he sent out his magic sensing to gain some awareness of his surroundings, before crawling to lean against a nearby tree and examining his wounds. Harry felt a surge of incredible pain, but focused through it. He could feel a large splinter lodged in his right leg just above his knee, and smaller slivers of wood piercing deep into his flesh all up and down his right side, from his ankle to his brow. A large but shallow cut on his forehead was bleeding profusely into his rapidly swelling right eye. The worst damage was to his wand arm. Harry turned his remaining good eye tentatively downward. His robes were torn to shreds, and beneath the singed tatters his arm was burned black, the skin splitting to reveal, raw, red muscle, from the elbow down. A bloody white shard of bone poked through near his wrist, but the most horrific sight was clenched tightly in his ruined hand. The charred, splintered remains of his wand poking from his blackened fist. _Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, FUCK! _His breathing quickened and he began to hyperventilate, his occlumency shattered, before his uncle's voice came to him once more. _The art of Muay Thai, like many Asian martial arts, has its roots in magic. However, unlike Kung Fu, Muay Thai was created for one purpose, killing. To transform a man's limbs into deadly weapons. _By force of will Harry slowed his breathing and struggled to his feet. Eyes closed he restored his occlumentic combat meditation with great difficulty, excruciating pain fading to a dull ache. He forced open his wand hand, dropping the remains of his wand, before clenching both fists and pushing what remained of his magical reserves out into his limbs, focusing on thoughts of unbreakable stone and his intent to destroy his enemies. As he finished the exercise his magic sensing detected three auras close by, moving slowly towards his general position.

Harry opened his good eye, the other now swollen shut, and relied on his magic sensing to guide him through the darkness towards his prey. He crept upon them from the side, and as he neared they became visible in a ray of moonlight. Three of his ambushers, walking in a tightly clustered single file. The eyes of the first, who he saw to be Marcus Flint, held a steely determination, while the second, a pale, skinny blond haired boy he could not name, had a look of fear. The third strode some paces behind them, his features remaining obscured by shadow. As they passed directly before his hiding place Harry leapt forward with the silent grace of a panther, his left fist connecting with the side of Flint's jaw, shattering bone and sending a spray of blood and teeth into the night. His follow up was just as brutal, the elbow of his damaged arm impacting the bridge of Flint's nose with enough force to fracture the young man's skull. As Flint collapsed Harry moved to the second in line, an underhanded left jab collapsing the teen's windpipe, a straight kick to the inside of his knee breaking his leg and bringing him down, and a knee to the face finishing him off. Harry moved to engage the third only to find the boy, who now realized to be the younger Rosier brother, had moved back several paces. Warned by the glowing wand tip and the movement of his lips Harry had a split second to throw himself out of the way of the boy's _bombarda_, and behind a fallen log. The spell careened off into the forest and a moment later detonated with a bright flash, the shockwave dislodging leaves from the canopy and rattling his bones. Acting quickly Harry reached into his shirt and drew forth his ward necklace, clasping it tightly and pushing the last dregs of his magical reserves into the talisman's runic matrix. A small but powerful protection ward rose around him just as the Rosier boy's second spell slammed against Harry's cover, filling the air with fine dust and splinters of rotten wood. Harry felt another magical presence approach Rosier, and soon a second wand had joined the relentless assault on his protection ward. They seemed reluctant to move closer, likely warned off by the cooling bodies of Flint and the fearful blond, but it mattered not. The channeling runes would stretch the worth of his magic, but he was rapidly becoming exhausted, his breathing labored and nausea turning his stomach. He estimated he had a couple minutes longer at most. Despair seized him, _not like this, Merlin be damned I can't die like this. _He searched his sluggish mind, desperately seeking any potential way out. He could overload the ward and try to kill them with the backlash, but he had no guarantee they wouldn't shield in time, and the strain would likely kill him. Another string of powerful spells impacted his ward, and darkness crowded his vision. _Fuck it, better to die by my own hand and maybe take the bastards with me. _Spots swimming before his eye Harry gathered his remaining magic into a fist and prepared to engage the overload sequence, when a heavy presence in the magical plane gave him pause. The bombardment had ceased, his attackers likely regaining their breath for a renewed assault, so Harry allowed his ward to collapse, and focused on his magic sensing. A horde of powerful auras filled the treetops above and scurried along the forest floor around them. Auras that reeked of decay and damp darkness, that told of a cunning intelligence and inhuman predatory instinct. Harry turned his eye up towards the canopy, noticing how the branches swayed as if in heavy wind, how the moonlight was blotted out by large black shapes. He struggled to make sense of what was happening, his mind fogged by exhaustion and the pain that had returned with the dissolution of his combat meditation. Suddenly he felt a surge of magic laced with fear, and two auras who up until moments ago had been attempting to take his life were ruthlessly extinguished. Harry turned his head to where Rosier and his companion had been standing, finding only an empty moonlit clearing. He felt the dark auras looming about him, the closest directly above. Harry whipped his head up, catching his first glimpse of the new threat. Four reflective black eyes framed pincer tipped mandibles larger than his arms, followed by a massive body covered in hair like spines. Fear gripped his heart, Harry's fist tightening around the rune stone held loosely in his left hand. As the acromantula closed in Harry forced the very last of his magic into the amulet, uttering a guttural string of Old Saxon keywords. The ward stone grew hot, searing the flesh of his fingers and palm, and a wave of heat and light expanded forcefully away from him, before a rushing darkness claimed his conscious state.

Harry woke some time later, the world around him alight with orange and yellow flame. He struggled to his hands and knees, reeling as his already painful headache became excruciating. The headache reached a tipping point, and quite suddenly he was emptying the contents of his stomach onto the ground, stinging flecks of vomit landing on his burnt, bloody hands. As the puking turned into dry heaving darkness crowded his vision, the strain threatening to send him back into unconsciousness. _C'mon dammit, you can't give up now, death is still watching. _As the overwhelming urge to pass out departed, Harry gathered himself, lurching to his feet. He was struck by a strong sense of vertigo, and his headache redoubled, nearly bringing him to his knees to dry heave once more. His entire existence was pain, but he tried to ignore it, focusing on the thought that he was not safe yet. Through the blurry vision granted by his eye he could see dark shapes moving at the edge of the growing flames, and what limited magic sensing he still retained told of dark auras exuding pain and rage. Focusing on the bright beacon of the castle's magic he forced himself into a stumbling run, really no more than a fast walk. His wounded leg threatened to give out at any moment, and he was forced to throw himself against passing trees just to keep his feet, but he pressed on, a desperate mantra on repeat in his head. _Safety. I must get to safety. _After what seemed an eternity he glimpsed the flickering lights of Hogwarts, and after a few steps more he found himself at the edge of the forest. As darkness claimed him once more a final thought filled with relief echoed through his mind. _Safe._

**AN:** Well, If you've gotten this far, thank you, and please review. This is part one to the introduction chapter of my very first fanfic, while I debated splitting this, ultimately a 10k+ word intro chapter would be too long, and while I never intended the intro to be so long, it kind of ran away from me. The OC of Harry's Uncle Joe will be an integral part of this story, and his history and how exactly he's related to Harry will be gradually expanded upon later. Harry will be powerful in this story, but only as powerful as canon Harry if he'd received proper training, and I intend to put him through the wringer, as can be seen in this chapter. Harry is slightly OOC but I hope I managed to show somewhat how the entrance of Joe into Harry's life has changed him from canon. Pairings will remain a mystery, as I feel putting pairings in the summary spoils an element of the story unless the story is centered from chapter one around said pairing, that said, to avoid potential flaming I will say now there will be no slash, so don't get your hopes up if that's your thing. I can't promise any kind of regular update schedule, as my life is rather hectic, but I will try to update as frequently as possible.

I have to give credit to the phenomenal fic Circular Reasoning by Swimdraconian for inspiring the character of Uncle Joe and certain elements of the world building, if you haven't read it already I strongly suggest you do, it's a brilliant Dark!Harry/Time travel fic, though I must warn that it has strong horror elements and that the most recent chapter leaves off on a bit of a cliffhanger and that it hasn't been updated since 2017.


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